


The Beginnings of Electricity - A Penny Dreadful

by Sherloqued



Category: Penny Dreadful (TV)
Genre: Bride of Frankenstein, Death Takes A Holiday, Fallen Angels, Gothic Romance, Homage, Multi, Penny Dreadful Soundtrack (Never Say No Reborn I Was Never Going to Go to Africa), Redemption, Reincarnation, Shapeshifting, Supernatural Elements
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-10
Updated: 2017-10-31
Packaged: 2018-07-14 05:38:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 18,783
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7155824
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sherloqued/pseuds/Sherloqued
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A look into the history of Dr. Victor Frankenstein and friends.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Beginnings of Electricity

The Beginnings of Electricity

A Penny Dreadful

 

"Thank you, kind Sir."

"Thank you, Mum."

"Thank you, Sir, you've been most kind."

And she'd pretend to cough up blood, delicately into her linen handkerchief, but it was only the fake blood she'd 'borrowed' from the Grand Guignol Theatre. The pounds and shillings would then fall rapidly into her flower basket. It just made the passersby a little bit more forthcoming, 'twas all. It was better than lifting her skirts for nasty strangers, half-rats drunk, too rough and overly familiar with her, or offering her money for a quick peek or alley job as if what they had was so special she couldn't possibly resist. _Come on, swee'ie, give us a look_ , in gruff whispers. Enterprising petty thief that she was, she'd pick their pockets then and they deserved it, she'd never let the likes of them touch her. Or who could perhaps be the dreaded Whitechapel Ripper. It weren't safe out there for a lady these days. She carried a dagger at her belt for protection, a thing of beauty that she didn't know how she had come to possess; and sometimes, a burly-looking man friend would accompany her, when a little extra convincing was needed for them to hand over money.

"How'd yer fancy wife at home like to read about your doin's in the Fleet Street papers, ya disgustin' creature, ye." she'd hiss, while rifling through their wallets, if they were toffs.  Finding the tintype photographs of proper wives, sweet-faced children.

"Who'd believe you, ya dirty little tart."

"Don't' know. Shall we find out?"

And usually, they did not want to find out. She had better be careful; she was beginning to develop quite a reputation for herself, a sort of 'Black Bess of the Road', the noblewoman from West Tipperary dispossessed of her lands (and supposed distant relation), with her gang of highwaymen and freedom fighter rapparees, gleefully robbing Englishmen. Ahorseback in a man's silk top hat (taken as part of recompense) and veil, fitted jacket, her full black skirt and petticoat with riding breeches underneath, elegant gloved hands on the reins, she must have made quite a dashing sight. Convicted of high treason and sentenced to the gallows at Tyburn; on the day of her execution she waved kisses to and blessed her admirers and her countrymen and women.

"That's spittin' in their eye, Bess!"

"God love ya, Bess!" they all cried and cheered; women sobbed.

Legend says that she still rides, still waits at lonely crossroads and returns to distant mountain strongholds, a fleeting shadow disappearing into the trees, her coppery brown hair flying behind her, for her second-in-command and, it was whispered, her lover, Robbie MacAodh.

 

* * *

 

She spent a night in a stinking jail for affray. Would have been for more if it had not been for the bobby on patrol, a friend of the family, having sympathy for her dear mother, and after having lost her father too. Who knew what the good Lord saw fit to give ya; wasn't her fault she gave birth to a gang a' devils.

"Move along now." he had warned her at the streetlamp near the park. But the girl just could not keep her rotten mouth shut. Nearly as beautiful as her mother had been, until she started cursing him; and he wanted to stop it now, get her back on the right path. Perhaps a cooling off in jail for a night with the reprobates and society's dregs would cure 'er.

"Now go on home an' see yer mither." he had gently urged her when she was released the next morning, his eyes as compassonate as a grandfather. _Meek as a lamb this mornin', are we._ he'd wanted to say to her, but didn't. She wondered if her mother had contacted him. She didn't know where friends of the family and relatives diverged, and she was now glad.

Her mother had been a great beauty of her day, and her parents' marriage was a stormy one, with loud arguing, slamming of doors, long separations when her father was away to find work, and passionate reconciliations. After almost every reunion there was a new baby. She thought how her mother struggled to take care of them, and that the world would take a lovely young flower of a woman and turn her into a drudge. Brona decided that a life raising a tenement full of squalling brats in poverty was not for her, and with none of the options available to her appealing, she left home at seventeen. As tough as she appeared, she didn't think she could survive there.

She'd heard of an old woman from the moors who made a preventive, a tincture made from the seeds of the Queen Anne's Lace flowers that grew wild along the roadsides, but Brona felt that it was best to avoid the matter entirely.

She only once posed for risqué photographs in fancy underfinery at the request of a very well-to-do gentleman who paid her well for them; he took her to expensive restaurants but she felt she was just a passing amusement for him and it didn't last, but they remained friends. Mr. Dorian Gray, wealthy beyond her imagining, was so preternaturally beautiful that at first she didn't trust him, thought he must certainly be shallow, and he had lovers both men and women, and those beautiful ones who were more fluid of gender. Many fell sway to his powerfully seductive charms, but he was not easily possessed by any for long.

"How old are you?" people would ask him, so taken were they with his remarkable youthfulness and beauty - immutable, yet almost liquid-like.

"A lot older than I look." Dorian would tease.

Sometimes Brona would wickedly quip: "as old as Time Immemorial'. (When she herself would be asked, in the modern, future world, noone could have imagined it to be literal when she would answer that she was a millennial) _How very extraordinary_ , she'd thought, in wonder. To stay forever at the full flower of one's youth and beauty, but yet with the wisdom of the ages. She felt the wisdom to be even more important; beauty meant nothing if it only came with the folly and inexperience that was youth. One lifetime was not enough time to learn; and as such people made the same mistakes over and over again. The time they visited an underground gambling parlour, where there was illegal dogfighting; and the horror of people enjoying the bloodshed and even clamoring for more. No wonder Dorian loved to visit the Royal Botanic Gardens; she found she now did as well. What a pair of hothouse orchids the two of them made.

But it turned out that in his own way, Dorian was a seeker, just like she was. And what he found wasn't always beautiful; anything but. Dorian was more of a dispassionate, even jaded, observer than she was. Her friendship with him introduced her to a new world; and the assemblage of artists, writers, progressive thinkers and the avant-garde of the day at his drawing room salons stimulated her mind, and she was welcomed as an equal. A poor Irish immigrant girl who'd barely learned to read. Women writers and artists too; and suffragettes. She'd met Beardsley and Oscar Wilde over absinthe at one of Dorian's parties; had the rare pleasure of being introduced to Gustav Klimt in Vienna; Alphonse Mucha in Paris; and viewed from Dorian's bored distance, some of the women in various stages of disrobement at Dorian's pleasure parties did resemble a Gustav Klimt painting. She listened to Debussy, Camille Saint-Saëns and Erik Satie.

She was able to find occasional work as an artist's model after that, a Muse, and so she was grateful. She had tried work in domestic service as a housemaid, as her mother had done, and her mother had recommended her wild, undisciplined daughter. But she hated the routine of it, was late too often, and her salty tongue spitting out streams of curses wasn't appreciated for too long, not appropriate for respectable house, and so she was sacked. _Yes Sir, Yes Mum, whatever you say, Mum, or a scrubwoman, that'll be a cold day in Hell._    She was glad she'd been sacked; her heart wasn't in it anyway, because she didn't like the idea of waitin' on people she thought were no better than she was.   She was becoming active in the Irish Home Rule movement.  

In exchange for room and board, she instead found work as a barmaid at The Crowe's Nest pub at the Mariner's Inn, doing chambermaid work and sometimes helping with the cooking.   The hours were long, but the wages and tips were good - and the patrons, ordinary souls, were decent and respectful to her for the most part, even sweet.  A little too much drink would turn some men into poets.  It was there that she met Mr. Chandler.   She'd send money home occasionally for her mother, brothers and sisters, but once she left the fold, she found she had become an outsider, even resented to a degree. But she could not be someone she wasn't. She had found a happiness; an equilibrium.

Not only did she continue to polish her English, and hold on tightly to her cherished Gaelic, but she also learned French, and, because of her association as an artist's model sitting for one of the pre-Raphaelite painters she met at Dorian Grey's home, some Italian.  Perhaps her favorite language outside her own, she especially liked the words of love.  But she never forgot her roots. And although she was proud that she still had the talent for spinning off colorful curse words and imprecations, _I'll show ya French, pure poetry, too_ ; experience had begun to soften her edges and refine her attitudes. And she kept the beautiful corsets (until she grew tired of the constraints of them and more forward-thinking women stopped wearing them) and the beribboned chemises and fancy drawers.

And it wasn't a lie, not really. More like prescience; because eventually the blood became real and was what got her in the end, as it was incurable, especially for the poor.  She drew her paisley shawl tighter around her.   She had begun taking laudanum to help suppress her cough, which couldn't cure her but made it a little more bearable, her mind drifting like the slow whorls of smoke in an opium den. She hummed a tune. _Flowers in Spring and Summer, Evergreens and Holly tied with Red Ribbons in Winter, an Orange in the toe of your stocking at Christmastime._

 

* * *

 

She tried to comfort the voice she heard by her ear as she slept. She was cold; she felt as though she were lying in a bed of ice. It was a man's voice, most definitely, but not her Da come with the angels to receive her at the Pearly Gates, as he had been there when she was born. She knew what with all she'd done in her life she probably deserved to be in the other place. If her poor father had lived to see what'd become of her, God rest his soul, he'd have burst in to wherever she was, no matter his foe, and dragged her all the way back to Belfast; and then when he got her home, it would have been the only time he would have ever slapped her or called her a miserable little whore. But they were left poorer than ever after he died.

But this man now spoke to her of love and carnality and recited to her from of the poetry of the Romantics, some she would not have recognized if he hadn't told her so, that may have been his own writings. _An Invite, to Eternity_ by John Clare; she would marry this man sight unseen. _A thousand times, yes._

 

'Song for the Little Sparrow' at the Grand Guignol

His voice was gentle and soulful, the words he spoke eloquent and poetic, just like she'd heard at the theatre. How could a man with a voice like his not be beautiful, no matter what his outward appearance. She hadn't cared for the handsome but wooden leading man, or the sweet but simple ingenue's story. She only wondered who it was from behind the scenes who shone the limelight, and lit the gas footlights that came on all at once in a loud puff of smoke at the edge of the stage, perfectly timed with the opening of the curtain and boom of the orchestra, like a magician, that had so charmed and captivated her that she gasped, then moved her to tears. She thought she caught a glimse of him. She wished she could have shared a glass of champagne with him at the interval. The soul of a lover. She would sing words of love to him too if she could. When her soul flew back to her, and she knew it soon would, she would kiss away his wounds, protect him from harm. Anyone laid a finger on 'im would find themselves laid out, personally. If he could love an unfortunate woman such as herself.

There was another voice as well, but not as near and insistent as this one, more in the background, and some discord associated with it. She was becoming impatient and frustrated that she could not move her arms and legs yet, her fingers, or to speak, as much as she was trying to. _My dear heart_ , she wanted to call out to him.

 

Notes on Electromagnetic Theory and Galvanism by V. Frankenstein, MD, Ch.M.

1 December 1891

Patient: Brona Croft, female, age unknown

Cause of death: Pneumonia, tuberculous - 'consumption'

His work was improving. _Third time's the charm._   Aside from the ashen look of her complexion, she was still serenely beautiful, like a pre-Raphaelite painting, with her long wavy titian hair. Like the Rossetti in Dorian Gray's private collection.  _La Donna Serena.  D'une Beauté Sereine._   Or perhaps the Waterhouse; and most definitely the Millais.

In her mid-to-late twenties, possibly slightly older, it was impossible to say for certain. Old enough to have learned a few valuable life lessons, but taken before the harshness of her circumstances could truly harden her. The American, Chandler, had called on him about her, concerned for her; he was surprisingly tender towards her. In almost the same condition as she was when he'd found her, lying in her bed very near death and he hadn't let her linger.  He spoke to her in gentle tones; telling her that she was only stepping through a doorway, nothing more.  Time was of the essence.

 

Gorgeous Secrets

What was the vital force of life, what was it made of, and where did it go after death?  Living beings were not merely simple automata.  Religions would call it the soul, which would continue on to an incorporeal, transcendent afterlife; and he was a scientist, but a scientist with the heart of a poet.   It was a subject that had tantalised him since the time he was a child and felt the pain of first loss, his beloved dog Bradshaw; then later his mother, and then his father.  How difficult it had been to accept, the absolute and inexorable finality of it, so much so that he had devoted his entire life to the pursuit of it.  Even thoughts of women couldn't distract him from his studies.

He did have one close friendship, surprisingly deep, he remembered fondly - his old college roommate and chem lab partner. An intense, driven and beautiful young man of English and Indian descent; Bengali Hindu. Both gifted and alone, they gravitated to one another and Victor found that he could discuss these concepts and ideas with Henry quite easily, and they did, endlessly, especially late nights over the hookah. He softly chuckled at the thought.

The chemistry lab was located in a stone, octagonal-shaped building adjoining the University's Museum of Natural History, modeled after the large, open kitchen of a monastic abbey from medieval times; quite beautiful and one of the first of its kind anywhere. It was exciting to be at the vanguard of something. Looking back on it, Henry was possibly the most brilliant chemist he had ever known, with potential of note even then; Victor had learned much from him; they had learned much from each other. At least he liked to think that the exchange had been mutual.

At school holidays, he found that he almost did not want to go home without him, as Henry would accompany him to the railway station. As time went on, they sought out each other's company more and more; did everything together, went everywhere together, took their meals together in the dining hall or at a restaurant, a favorite curry house, if they could scrape together enough funds between them, and sometimes, slept together.   It seemed like the most natural thing in the world.

Henry was very affectionate; and they eventually became roomates. Closer than brothers. In fact, that was Henry's term of affection for Victor, brother. Romantic, he supposed, but immature - a rite of passage almost - intimacies that they would surely leave behind once they graduated school and assumed the adult responsibilities that were required of them; chose wives. He did have to admit that he found both sexes attractive, but they were not really 'that way', he didn't think, 'the Oscar Wilde sort'. They'd most likely keep in touch after university, write to each other on holidays; catch up and inquire about wives and children, careers, and that would have been all.

It had been over five years since Victor had last seen him, and aside from one or two letters, he had not kept in touch with Henry, why he knew not, perhaps that always convenient obsessive devotion to work.  Still, he'd followed Henry's career with interest, sharing in the pride of his successes and accolades as he read about them in the newspapers, medical journals and the alumni newsletter, if only from afar. But now, he found that he needed him.

 

Madness, Poetry, Passion and Rage

Dr. Frankenstein's first creation seemed to be pleased enough.

"What if she detests me? My face. . ." he worried. "I fear I love her already, you see." His voice quavered slightly.

"All men's eternal dilemma, I can assure you." Dr. Victor Frankenstein tried to reassure him jokingly, but what would he know of it.  He'd been so involved with his research that he hadn't the time for it, or wouldn't let himself have time for it.   But despite the outward professionalism of a physician, he still felt a sense of awe, was not immune to it.

His eyes started to appear in her focus; the color of fire. Then the pale white skin of his face, the long scar running down one side. The nearly black red of his lips, as if stained by black wine, the dark lank hair that was missing on the scarred side of his face, or perhaps did not now grow on the damaged area at all. He wore a long dark navy-blue greatcoat with the caped collar turned up tall, like those worn by coachmen or watchmen, or perhaps the military; a sailor's watchcoat. But his eyes blazed with a passion that she had only ever dreamt of - for the experience of life, for self-expression, for love. That was all that mattered to her. She thought him beautiful. He resembled what would come to be known in the not-too-distant future as a silent film star, a romantic figure. She would make sketches of him, if he would agree to it. She had been an artist in her own right.   He had never thought of himself as interesting or beautiful enough that anyone would want to sketch or paint his likeness.  She did not need the dullness of symmetry or perfection; nor convention. His strength, both the physical and that of his character, his dignity and the quiet fieriness of his presence, shone through and made all that insignificant by comparison. All the other lineaments of his face; his fine jaw, the cleft in his chin, his eyes and the downcast shadows his lashes made, the way one corner of his lips turned up when he smiled, were beautiful. Love only sees the beauty of the beloved, without equal. If he could love a fortunate woman such as herself.

" _Robbie_." the name was on her lips, but she did not yet know why or who.

The reverse was also true; no amount of outer beauty could mask for a black heart and cruel, selfish temperament, and turned the beauty to ugly.

Speaking of the future, she could envision him as a gentleman farmer in the Shires or the southwest of France, still writing poetry and reading his books. The lovely Miss Ives she saw walking with the Lupus Dei, the Wolf of God - embodied in, of all things, a cowboy from the American Southwest, known there as Old Lobo. For a cowboy to come back in the next life as a persecuted wolf at the height of the government-sponsored bounty program meant to eradicate them from the face of this Earth, so that he was constantly on the run, was the height of terrible poetic justice, she thought, after ranchers and wolvers had devised so many diabolical methods for destroying them, tortures worse than any in a penny dreadful, such as ropes thrown around their necks and then pulling them in opposite directions from the saddle, or doused with gasoline and burned alive, hamstringing them and setting hounds on them, and deliberately introduced disease. Nobody said the angels didn't have a sense of irony, but it was probably more meant to be a cosmic lesson to be learned. But for it to be Ethan Chandler, whom she knew firsthand to be a plain-spoken, kind and decent being, surprised her. Thrown to the 'wolves', so to speak. Maybe that was the lesson. But who knew what he had to atone for in his past. Misunderstood by humans, perhaps even rivaled, for millennia, but touched by God and put on this Earth by Him in his deserved and equal place. Miss Ives could probably help him. She had no idea how she came to have this knowledge, how in this new life she was now somewhat clairvoyant.

"She could never detest you." Brona managed to whisper, smiling up at them. She actually felt quite giddy as she slowly sat up.

What could be more human? She'd seen people at their most vile, cruel, and grasping; and what was worse, completely unremorseful for it. Their Creator made them flawed, but also capable of goodness and profound love. _Incidit in Scyllam cupiens vitare Charybdim_.  He stumbles into Scylla, who wishes to escape Charybdis.  She adored him.  _Darling poet, I'll kiss your hand gladly and proudly, devotedly at any of Dorian Gray's soirées and anywhere else._

"I must say I'm feeling rather lightheaded." she said.

She became aware of a blanket being wrapped round her shoulders, to cover her nakedness and keep her warm, and they both helped support her as she unsteadily rose to her feet. 

 

* * *

 

She spied an orange on the planked wooden table; a plate, some cheese, thinly sliced ham and bread, a knife.   Water was boiling for tea.

"I was just about to have something." he said. "Will you join me please."

She realized she was hungry. She nodded.

As he peeled the orange, the aromatic oils filled the air between them. The tart, sweet scent and bright color roused her senses. It reminded her of walking in an orange grove, the white, wax-textured blossoms and their heavy fragrance, one of the most memorable things she had ever experienced. He handed her a section with a large but exceedingly gentle hand, brought it to her mouth. She bit into it and the sweetness burst in her mouth. It tasted wonderful. He smiled at her reaction.

It surprised her that he, in his rustic existence, did not hunt and ate little meat, especially with all of the extravagance she had come to see in the world. That a man of his stature and size could subsist on roots, nuts and berries alone. He said that he had no wish to harm the creatures of the benevolent forest that had protected and sustained him when none else would.

He would not allow another to flounder as he had, the sudden, traumatic assault to his senses and confusion his rebirth had been, left alone with noone, no words, to guide him. His bride must be another immortal or made to become immortal; mortal women would wither away and die, leaving him lonely again.

At The Grande Guignol, he'd watched the hateful Simon with Maud, from behind what now seemed like a confessional screen. Not in a voyeuristic sense, but bitter with envy and grief, because it was something he so desperately missed and desired himself, an intimate companion, a woman.  Simon, while handsome, after a sort, could be arrogant and cruel, shouting orders and calling Maud around like a dog. He didn't know why she put up with him. She was nice enough on her own, quite kind even, but when Simon was around, she did not stand up for him. But with a wretched countenance such as his, he felt he would be forever banished to loneliness, celibate as a priest. The violent way his own beloved had been taken from him. All that had been long gone and buried, until Frankenstein, in his infinte self-absorption, chose to revive his misery for him. He insisted that Frankenstein make things right. If not, he'd snap necks like twigs until he came round to the idea.

"Do you know of orange groves?" she asked, suddenly.

"Yes."

He was delighted. But he'd made many missteps, and he'd learned to hold back the intensity of his ardour and depth of his feelings, and his superior physical strength, so as not to frighten.

"Do not fear me." he said.

"My dear man." she began to explain. She was descended from a long line of women who did not fear, but instilled it.   "What is your name?"

He thought for a moment. His creator apparently hadn't seen fit to bother; and he only had the one that the well-meaning Vincent in his decency had given him, Caliban. His sweet-tempered younger brother Proteus had chosen his own name, and so should he. There was much that he regretted.  One more befitting of his true nature.  Perhaps it was too grandiose of him, but so be it.

"John." he answered. "John Clare."

There was a brass and iron bed with a patina dulled and tarnished with age, but still beautiful, in a corner of the upper loft of the abode, which she assumed must be for her sleeping arrangements; with muslin curtains hung from above in a makeshift canopy, draped around it and tied back. With the panels drawn, it would be warm and private. The effect was beautiful; and she was touched by the thought he had put into it.  Looking closer, one of her lace nightdresses from her room at the Mariner's Inn lay across it.  She remembered she had worked as a barmaid there, in exchange for her room and board.  Her favorite, it had pale blue satin ribbon threaded through the drawstring neckline.  A trunk with some of her things was retrieved from there as well, and stood near the bed.  His simple bed was near the stone hearth downstairs.  His many books lined the shelves.  She appreciated that he had not leered at her in her nakedness nor try to touch her in any untoward way; but that he did not seem unfamiliar with a woman.

She had the sweet femininity of Maud, the refined beauty, sensitivity and spirituality, and appreciation for poetry as Miss Ives, the earthy sensuality of Lily, and with unique qualities all her own. As formidable as Evelyn and Hecate Poole put together.  Her coppery brown hair fell nearly to her waist when it was down, or when partially held back by an iridescent, mother-of-pearl hair comb; and she had long, slender limbs.

All the dreams he'd had of what his mate would be like, and Brona did not correspond to much of them. But then, the real, flesh-and-blood woman who emerged from her electrified bath exceeded all his expectations, rendered his preconceived ideas irrelevant, forgotten. He had been transfixed by the wonder it, of bringing her back to life, as she stood there, wet and trembling; as if he had witnessed the Birth of Venus, fully-formed, from the sea, or of the Creation of Eve. She was her own woman; and nobody would ever describe her as demure, or docile. She wasn't perfect, but perfect for him. And such beauty had she! Would she still remember him?

As promised, as soon as he had his intended bride, and she had time to consider and agree to his proposal, they quit all association with Dr. Frankenstein. The antipathy between them only provoked John, and John's presence seemed to drain their creator of strength, weakening him by the day. It was for the best that they leave it behind them. They would now begin their courtship, get to know one another again, enjoy the pleasures of intimate physical union, and perhaps marriage after twelve months and a day. She was free to go at any time if she were unhappy, if he did not make her happy.

What was it that had driven Dr. Frankenstein so, and did he not bear any responsibility for or obligation to his creation, almost as for a child, of guidance and tutelage? It wasn't for the glory, or pride or ambition, at least entirely, but the desire for knowledge that was never satisfied, and irrespective of outcome. But the results of his experiments were living, breathing, sentient beings! John did not need to seek the validation of his creator. Perhaps in time both he and Dr. Frankenstein would come to terms; but until then, he should see that they had been given, although a painful one at times, a gift, a new life.  None were so blessed as they.

She considered again John's proposal; that the outcome was not fixed intrigued her as adventure. What had they to lose? She took his face in both her hands, looked deeply into his eyes, and kissed him.   _An Invite, to Eternity by John Clare_ ; yes, she would marry this man. A thousand times, yes.

They pooled whatever money they had between them for a small plot of land on the edge of the boreal woodland, the weather too cold and severe for mortals, which John had cleared to build this small house made of fieldstones and logs. He had a wonderful talent as a stonemason. He replaced every tree he cut. He said the work had been beneficial to him and helped his mind. He was so good at it, she wondered if this had been his means of employment in Germany or Switzerland, where he was originally from; if the memories of his former life were returning to him, as hers had.

"I hope you'll find everything to your liking." he said. "Let me know if there is anything else you need."

"I appreciate all the trouble you've gone to, Mr. Clare, very much." she said.

"I...I had a wife, a family, you see...before..." his voice faltered.

"Oh!"

She wasn't quite sure how to respond to this. He hadn't elaborated on the circumstances, whether for good or ill, said not another word about it; and she did not wish to pry. Was his wife no longer living, died in some horrible way? Or had she remarried, after believing him to be dead? Would he now want to try to find his family? How had he arrived to Dr. Frankenstein's hands; had he been lost at sea? Drowned? Found among the other of the flotsam of the river, herself included? Did he even remember everything, after his rebirth? Did his rebirth put him now on another plane of existence, his previous life unreachable? Had he been a rich man? Poor? Death makes equals of us all. Perhaps he'd tell her more in time. And who was she? The paintings done of her, though beautiful, were not really her, were always another's impression of her. It all was too much for her to bear, made her head hurt.

"Everything is fine, more than fine." she said.

"Very well then." he smiled.

 _Let her get some rest now_. he thought.  She must be overwhelmed by it all.

And so they would live, away from the humanity that had been so cruel to him. But they would still have to maintain limited contact with mortals; to shop for supplies, for the oranges he enjoyed, or just for something fun such as music and dancing, and as a measure of time. Brona's link to them would help smooth the way for him. With their short lifespans, succeeding generations of mortals would not know of or remember the two of them, as long as they kept to themselves and lived quietly; and for any who did and spoke of it, their stories would surely be dismisssed as folk tale and myth, with the high priority mortals placed on perfect reason. They could not comprehend immortality. For the most part, they were followers, and being seen as different from the group was abhorrent to them. This very same trait could occassionally be dangerously unpredictable, however, and quickly turn them into an angry mob.   Her own family back in Ireland wasn't even aware that she had passed away, and none the wiser when she visited.  She had wanted to spare them that grief.  And there would always be a small minority of kindly, open-minded and trustworthy individuals such as Vincent Brand, and wouldn't we like to see them from time to time, my darling? Did he remember how much joy it gave him to give a gift to Maud and to see her delight? But to be sure, she would consult her ancestors about a protective charm to cast about the house and woodland, to keep out errant children who could carry home tall tales, thieves, and those with evil intent. It would not affect the wildlife, who could still come and go at will; and who they would enjoy watching from their windows every morning and evening as they had their tea.

When she retired to bed for the night and drew the muslin panels closed, she was pleasantly surprised to find they had been painted with scenes on the inside, as in theatrical backdrops; with flowering apple trees and rolling grassy hills; a deep blue-green fir forest; the cloud-piercing ragged peaks of the Mont Blanc massif in the French Alps and the glacier, La Mer de Glace, a suspended-in-time turquoise Sea of Ice. Dotted below it, in the valley at the great mountain's feet, were the impressions of the church spire and chalets with illuminated windows, which she recognized as the charming village of Chamonix. And above it all, a celestial sun, moon, and stars against a cerulean evening sky.

 _This is where our creator made us_ , she could almost hear John say.

 

The Return of an Old Friend, Dr. Hridayesh (Henry) Jekyll

He walked down the street near the River Thames docklands, checking his note again to make sure he had the address correct, aware of the stares of some he passed, the slur 'blackie' muttered by a few of the more bold among them. He continued along, impassively, purposefully, head high. _Turn right on Lamb Street in Aldgate, No. 20, Flat No. 3._

A window opened from several floors above him, and an old woman emptied the contents of the previous night's chamber pot from it, barely missing him as he ducked quickly.

"We don't need no wogs here. Back to Calcutta with the lot of you, I say."

How many times must he hear theses things, endure these things? He hadn't even been born in Calcutta. _Shut up, you ignorant woman_ , he'd wanted to yell back up at her, throttle the old bitch, but held it in.

He climbed the two flights of stairs, past the peeling paint and the sounds of squalling infants, knocked on the door urgently. "Victor." he called, and knocked again. "Victor!"

Dr. Frankenstein tentatively opened the door. He did not look at all well.

"You look terrible, my brother."

"Come in, my dear old friend."

_tbc_


	2. Paradise Reclaimed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes everything we believe to be true may not be.

i.  The Entity

 

_"Let us be as we were. Before there was Time, there was thee and me. Before the scorpion crawled and the adder hissed, back to the time when the Eald Gods sang, and there was only thee and there was only me. Give yourself to me freely, be who you are and always were.”  
_

 

  
It was an invocation.  He'd loved her, and she had loved him, back before he had been banished to the Underworld, his cold and desolate realm now.   He had been there when she was created, in the Garden.  He had been her favorite.   And how lovely was the daughter of God, in every way.  They had coupled few times over the course of the ages since then; in ancient Egypt, Greece and Rome, once where she took the form of a beautiful maiden called Bess from the north of Ireland, and here, now.   And the Earth had not stopped turning.  But the Old Faith had been supplanted by New Belief and he had been vilified; made a convenient scapegoat for the failings and sins of humankind.   Any of his followers who resisted the New Belief were punished and put to death; and for her part, she would be maligned and called the Devil's whore, the Mother of Evil, the speaker of the Devil's tongue, and even burned at the stake. 

But he could not be entirely vanquished.  Look closely at some ecclesiastical architecture.  Hidden among the carved stone ivy leaves and gravestones in churchyards, you can still see my face.  One of my many names, a symbol of life everlasting.  A secret wink, an act of defiance, by the pagan faithful.   Or read a chronicle of the events of a paradise lost, whispered to a scribe who was willing to hear me, justly.     
  
He benevolently escorted the souls of the dead to the Underworld now, sometimes accompanied by horse, many times ending their prolonged suffering and calming their fears of the unknown, fears of him.    _The pain is fleeting, I promise you that._ Aboard the doomed, ice-bound ship in the Arctic, destined for his exiled shore, he could barely contain his contempt for those who would scramble over each other to save only themselves.  Even he himself was not immune; their own son had been his most difficult task.   How tempting it had been to revive him, and how easy; and she had begged him to, in her grief; but a life of perpetual childhood, a Peter Pan in Kensington Gardens, never to grow up, while all children around him did, was not a life, but a torture beyond understanding.   But they were different; mature. 

He was a shadow of his former self now, the brilliant Archangel and Bringer of the Dawn, and battle marked, a shunned creature; but not left without some power and influence.  She knew him in the sickness wards and shelters, there in the underground railway tunnels and arches, or a part of her did, because she was immediately drawn to him and sought him out; until the holy sisters called her away from him.  She recognized him by his eyes; told him they were beautiful, as she had, always.    _Come with me,_ he had entreated her.  If she'd have any doubts about his identity, his touch would put them all to rest.   He knew just where to kiss her, touch her, places noone else would know, to awaken the places of her body that she thought were deadened forever.  _Ohh, my dear._

The only obstacle was their mortal form; their human vessels, though beautiful, always withered, until now.   Frankenstein's inadvertent entry into the cosmic dance had changed things.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Musings I had from Season 3, and the events leading up to it, of Penny Dreadful. A short chapter, but more to be added.


	3. Whispered Airs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The orderly is a changed man.

ii.   The Orderly

  
  
He had felt a bit like one of the Queen's guards around her; stoic, unflinching, only saying what needed to be said.  Dutifully completing his tasks and nothing more.    She was shy, protective of her modesty, strong-willed and uncooperative.   She refused to eat.   All of them started out that way, until this place ultimately would break them down.  It had a terrible way of changing them and turning them into broken things.   It twisted his gut, truth be told, some of the things that were done, but more educated and knowledgeable men than he said that it was to help them and make them well.   It was science.     
  
She would not sleep.   Perhaps it was because her biological rhythms were off, as there was no natural change of light and darkness in the room.   It was a strange place.   Of course she must be frightened.   He brought her food again and she tipped it over onto the floor.  
  
"You must eat, Miss."  
  
"What I must 'do' is leave this place."  she insisted.  
  
He left the room for a moment; returned with a mop and bucket, calmly cleaned up the mess, and then shut the door behind him.

 

* * *

  
He began to become more concerned about her.   Should he go to his supervisors and tell them that she was not sleeping?   He hesitated because he was afraid of what might happen if he did.   And she had been on his mind so much, people might think he was becoming smitten with her.   They had prescribed the hydrotherapy treatment.   He snuck her in a blanket because she was so cold and shivering.   When he tried to take it back from her, she clawed at his face.    But he was very strong and she was easily subdued.   For some, especially the men, they had to be beaten.   Some had to be restrained, left tied to their beds in their own filth.  
  
He pleaded with her to cooperate, at least pretend to, go along, so that she could be released.   Put her romantic Joan of Arc notions away.   She had no idea what the reality of a place like this was like.  They would shave her head.  He felt like he needed to apologize to her; explain why he was here.   He hadn't been good at his letters or maths, everything he ever had in life was hard won.  Not like her, he'd guess.   Jobs were scarce, and he had a wife and a sick child to care for.  He told her about his wife and son.  The best thing that had ever happened to him was Marjorie, and then when Jack came along. 

* * *

    
They began to talk more.  She asked his name.  
  
"Can't tell you that, Miss Ives.  It's against regulations."  
  
"Well, you know mine.   That doesn't seem fair, does it?"  she smiled at him.  
  
"I wouldn't know, Miss."  he smiled back at her.  
    
He began to spend more time with her.  As he worked the night shift, not many were about at that hour to notice.  When she cried about not knowing whether it was day or night, he brought the morning for her, before he left at the end of his shift.  He brushed her unkempt hair, to encourage her to hold on to her dignity.  It was like silk.  She apologized for attacking him.   She was nice.   He had told his wife about her, and the good-hearted person that Marjorie was, she had offered her advice and wanted to help, thinking his interest innocent.  Now he did not know anymore.  The brush, comb and mirror were Marjorie's idea, and the bit of make-up; things a woman might miss from home.   But even unwashed and wild-eyed, she was beautiful.  Too good for this place.  A lady.  She didn't belong here.  On Christmas Eve, he brought a book of child's verse, because she liked poetry and it was all that he had, and read it to her, and some sweets too.   He described to her how the streets and houses were decorated for the holidays, the fairy-lights.   He'd be sacked if anyone knew.  
  
"You have a kind heart." she told him.  
   
He began to have, for lack of a better word to call them, memories.   Of things he knew he hadn't ever before experienced; not frightening, really, but rather interesting and enjoyable.   He began to look forward to them.  Memories he would have had if he had ever traveled far enough outside of his home.  He never had done.  He might have wished to.   A sailing ship; three masts, full square-rigging.  He could hear the caw and laugh of the gulls floating and dipping on the air currents high overhead, feel the rocking of the waves, even smell the salt tang of the cool damp air and the spindrift blowing in off the bow that made him catch his breath, and reminded mortal men that they were not naturally a sea creature.   A clipper, she was christened _Herald of the Morning_ , bound for the Far East and Callao, Peru.   Loading cargo and gear for a long voyage, food and crates of oranges.  

He was fascinated by the beautiful lacquered papier-mâché dragon of the Dragon Dance at the Lunar New Year celebrations, as it wound its serpentine way through the streets of Limehouse, where they lived, and that he, Marjorie and Jack would watch as the parade passed just below their windows, to the sounds of drums and cymbals, and of popping firecrackers. 

* * *

 

One night, she slipped out of her hospital gown, walked over to him naked, and embraced him tightly, startling him.   She began to kiss him, and he remained like the guard, unmoved.   He would not take advantage of a vulnerable woman, like he had heard some of them did.   It was not right.   She was obviously not herself.  But his body began to respond, and he began to kiss her back, and as he embraced her, and he could feel himself becoming hard as she pressed her body into his.   
  
"Stop this, right now."  he commanded her, taking her firmly by the shoulders and pushing her to arm's length.  His eyes bored into hers, unblinking.  Hers fluttered, and she seemed to recover her senses, and he helped her back into her gown for the night.  
  
He tendered his resignation the next day.  He told himself it was because he could no longer justify working in a place where people were subjected to such harsh treatment.  And for the most part that was true.  The other part was because he was in love with her.  


	4. Then Let Us Dare

_I will leave all and come and make the hymns of you,_

_None has understood you, but I understand you,_

_None has done justice to you, you have not done justice to yourself,_

_None but has found you imperfect, I only find no imperfection in you,_

_None but would subordinate you, I only am he who will never consent to subordinate you,_

_I only am he who places over you no master, owner, better, God, beyond what waits intrinsically in yourself._

 

               _-  from 'To You' - 'Birds of Passage' (Leaves of Grass) - Walt Whitman_

 

♦♦♦

 

"Come in, my dear old friend."

Victor pulled Henry into a tight embrace; how he had missed him.   He invited him to sit, and offered tea, which he poured with trembling hands into two chipped china cups.   Henry grabbed his arm, turning it to inspect the marks he saw.  

"You've gone beyond the hashish of our school days, I see."  he remarked, distressed by Victor's condition.

Whatever the problem was, narcotics could only exacerbate it.  Henry looked round; it was the same as ever, all devoted to work, with only a small corner containing anything even remotely personal, and the austere bed.  For most people, Victor would certainly personify the old proverb of all work and no play.   But Henry never found Victor dull, once he could get him out of that frame of mind.  

"Victor, remember that I am your true friend - then, now and always."   _And your lover too._ he thought, _if you would only admit it to yourself_.    "You can confide in me anything."  

 

* * *

 

_"I intended to reason. This passion is detrimental to me; for you do not reflect that you are the cause of its excess.  If any being felt emotions of benevolence towards me, I should return them an hundred and an hundredfold; for that one creature's sake, I would make peace with the whole kind!  But I now indulge in dreams of bliss that cannot be realised.  What I ask of is reasonable and moderate; I demand a creature of another sex, but as hideous as myself; the gratification is small, but it is all that I can receive, and it shall content me.  It is true we shall be monsters, cut off from all the world; but on that account we shall be more attached to one another.  Our lives will not be happy, but they will be harmless, and free from the misery I now feel.  Oh! my creator, make me happy; let me feel gratitude towards you for one benefit!  Let me see that I excite the sympathy of some existing thing; do not deny me my request!"_

_\- Mary Shelley, Frankenstein_

 

 ♦♦♦

 

"Mr. Gray is hosting a do."  Brona announced, taking off her hat and coat.   They had just returned from a trip to the nearest town, the market town of Dumfriesshire.  He had taken her, by waggon and their two bay draught horses.  She sat close to him on the waggon's bench seat as he drove the horses gently and patiently, taking his arm, and occasionally resting her head on his shoulder during the day-long journey.  To any who saw them they were an ordinary farm couple, the husband injured in the war, or was it in a farming accident. 

 _"Are you from farther North, sir, you and your lovely bride?"_ a shopkeeper there had asked of him.

 _"Yes.  Very."_ he'd answered.Faces seemed a little more friendly to John now; people less hostile. 

She had several books with her, which she had borrowed from the circulating library, and an opened letter.  They talked as they put away the shopping together; things they had bought in town.   After they had finished, Brona put on the tea.  John sat down at the kitchen table, curious about the books.  He picked up one, tracing his fingers over the matte finish of its cover, the worn gold of the embossed lettering; breathing in the pleasant smell of old pages and ink. 

"The American Romantics." she'd told him.  "Have you read them?"

"Some."  John Clare replied.

Whitman, Emerson, Thoreau, Transcendentalism.  Margaret Fuller.    "For you as well, read them at your leisure."   A ribbon placemarker was in the Whitman volume.

"I think I should like to visit America one day." he said.  "Thee and me."

"And I hope we shall, someday."  she said. 

Brona, with an invitation, came up next to him, put her arms around his shoulders, leaned in and kissed his cheek.  

"Oh!"  she'd cried, as if she had been too forward in kissing him.  "Do you mind?"

"Mind?  No, of course I don't mind."  he softly chuckled.  "Please, do."   She kissed him again.

"Would you like to escort me, Mr. Clare."  she continued on happily, handing him the invitation.  "To a dinner party.  For just a few friends.  There will be dancing too.  It will be great fun."  

"Dorian will adore you."  she told him as she moved about the kitchen, opening and closing the cupboards and drawers; the whisper of the fabric of her dress, the soft clatter of the porcelain china and the silver, the rumble-and-hiss of the teakettle as the water started to boil, the sweet aroma of the tea as she spooned it from the tin. 

"In fact, I shouldn't be at all surprised if he'd like to have you for himself.  I warn you though, you may not be able to resist.   I'm rather immune to him now, I think."

 John smiled.   "Well he cannot have me because I am thine."

 "We'll stay in London then?"

 "Yes."   They would go by train. 

"Should I be worried about you and this Mr. Gray?"  he asked, gently teasing her, because he knew he had nothing to worry about, really.   They had become much closer of late, and she was becoming much more affectionate towards him.   After bringing the tea and biscuits on a tray and pouring them each a cup, she gathered her skirts to sit down beside him.   He rose and helped her with her chair.

"He's a good friend, nothing more.  And nothing less, I should say, because it's important to have good friends.  Dorian is a fellow I like to refer to as the exception to my rule about human nature.  In fact, he may be the exception to every rule of any kind.  I am very grateful to him; since the time I first met him in Bluegate Fields.  Whatever happened between us was a long time ago, in my former life, and we learned that we are better suited as friends than lovers.  He's like a brother really, an eternal twin.  I really can't explain it.  He says I'm one he can trust, because, as you know, of my directness and candour."  She laughed; she knew that was putting it mildly.

"Besides, he writes of someone."  she said.

"I must be quite dull in comparison."

"Not at all.  You'll like him.   He considers being different a divine gift, as do I.  He's a sensualist, interesting - fine food, drink, clothing, music, company, pleasures.   Colours.  Flowers.  Beautiful objets d'art, and fabrics and textures.  He'll show you the value of forgetting your troubles and enjoying living in the moment, at least for awhile." 

Her most favorite thing was the shelf of scents in his luxurious onyx-paved bath.   She realized that she and others had misjudged him due to his appearance as well.  And, because he had the misfortune to be beautiful and wealthy, dismissed him as a vacuous dandy and bon vivant, without substance, which was far, far from the case with Dorian Gray.   It was both a blessing and a curse for him.   At times, there was a sadness about him.   Noone was more surprised by this realization than she was herself.   And because of that, she knew he would never judge John.   He was like them, and she wondered how it was that he had become eternal.  

"You will love his art collection.  He has my painting there; I like to think of it as mine, anyway - _Boreal_ , I'm the windswept woman in the grey shawl.   _Miranda_ gazing out to sea."  John appeared amused by this.   

"And talking of London, I hear that Dr. Frankenstein has a famous doctor friend visiting.   But what care we for what others think?  Each one of us is different in some way, John, despite what we're led to believe.  You'll have a lot in common with him, and some of his philosopher friends."  she said.  "So no, you should not be worried about Mr. Gray and me.   Or anything.   If you find them all to be totally intolerable, we can make our excuses."

_There really wasn't much to tell, in that way, about her relationship with Dorian anyway, or with other men.  And she could not prostitute herself; not with her strict religious upbringing.  Something so demoralizing and degrading; the abuse, the violence and the disease.   And then after all of that, having to turn over your earnings to a bully pimp.  Now that would be the day.  Although she did not judge; she certainly could understand why a woman would have no other desperate option, or recourse.  And having made her living as one of a gang of thieves for a time, with those thievin' lads, she held no claims to any moral high ground either.   At least she'd been at no man's mercy.   But there had been Mr. Chandler.  From America, of the so-called classless society.  But that was how he conducted himself in his dealings with others, and she admired him greatly because of it.  Ethan._

"Darling.   I've told you, you can come and go as you please.   If you want to be with me, it will be of your own desire."

Her eyes filled with tears.   "But I do want to be with you, John."

"There now, don't cry."  he said, and kissed her hands, her lips.

He held no more animosity nor ill will towards their creator, since Frankenstein had done as he had asked; and John was a man of his word.  They need not cross paths with him again.   He knew that the odds had been against success, but he decided to take the chance.  And wonder of wonders, it had turned out better than he could have dreamt possible, as she seemed to have grown to care for him.   He now had companionship, acceptance, earthly love.   Whether she was outside tending the garden or gathering herbs, helping him in the fields, sketching and painting, or doing her needlework, he enjoyed her presence; and hearing her quietly singing throughout the house.  He was sublimely happy.   He had known what it was to weep; tears of anguish and sorrow, but also of joy.  Perhaps one day she might even agree to bear another child.  But could she comprehend all of the aspects of him, those that Dr. Frankenstein had unknowingly sutured together, when she had kissed his scars - the merchant sailor and chaplain; the asylum orderly, husband and father; and most of all, the once-mighty seraph?   She loved John Clare, the poet.  Could she comprehend those in herself as well?  He didn't completely understand it all yet himself.   He accepted himself now; but ultimately, would she?

He felt a great sadness over some of the things he'd done; Proteus, Professor Van Helsing.  He had been shocked and frightened by what he learned he was capable of.  Poor Proteus had been like him, another of Dr. Frankenstein's reanimated corpse experiments, and probably better off, but he could bring them both back and make amends, ask for forgiveness.   But the Putneys had tried to deceive him and do him harm, meaning to capitalize on him as a side-show attraction - a freak, an animal.   A thing to be ridiculed, gaped and pointed at, with the reassurance that no matter how bad they had it, at least they were better off than this poor beggar. 

"Vile creatures!" Bronagh had exclaimed, when he told her what they had tried to do to him.

He did not regret the loss of them.  The worst had been their daughter, Lavinia.  Born blind, she could not see his scars, and he felt at last he had found someone like him, someone kind, who could understand him through shared affliction, simpatico.  She was a very bright young woman and eager to learn of the world around her outside of the sheltered one she knew with her family, and they would talk often.  He thought they had become friends.  She'd take his arm and ask if he would guide her steps where she was unfamiliar, and he gently would, describing to her the things she could not see, be her eyes, as she called it.  She was lovely; her voice beautiful.  _Mr. Clare, would you help me, please._ He was happy to.  One day she became inexplicably frightened of him, because of the coldness of his hands, she'd said.

"You've no cause to be frightened of me."  he tried to reassure her, his voice almost pleading.  "It's just how I am.  I'm different than you are, that's all."

Her betrayal was a special kind of gall to him, and as she laughed at and taunted him after closing the door to his new prison, belittling him and his love of poetry, his rage inside silently boiled over.   Proud of  herself and her trickery, she left him, calling for her father and mother to come and see her great accomplishment of outwitting and capturing the beast he was.  As Putney and his shrill wife gloated from outside it and tried to get him to bargain for his freedom, with a superior strength that surprised even him, he tore the steel barred door straight from its concrete footings and tossed it aside, as if it had been made of nothing more than the wax at the museum where they employed him.

By the time Lavinia had returned, tentatively feeling her way along the wall and plaintively calling out for her dead mother and father, his fury had dissipated, and he was left with nothing but the blood on him and a sense of revulsion and shame.   He had nothing left to feel for her; and he realized that she was simply the unquestioning child of her parents.   She had even begun to sound like her father, emulating his lofty speech.   Her blindness had caused her to rely on her other senses, making them much more acute, and he found her to be extraordinarily perceptive.  _Could she now smell death_ , he wondered.  He turned up his collar to hide him and quickly left the infernal place, and to distance himself from her screams, and from the rest of humanity.  Perhaps he did now regret it after all.

Mr. Gray's philosopher friends certainly would be in for quite a revelation, the questions they had pondered for millennia at last answered, with some becoming validated and others defeated, to know that He actually did exist.  He chuckled.  But he would not make it known; he was honour-bound not to.  He looked forward to it; walking amongst the mortal and the beautiful.  And the immortal and beautiful.  It would be a pleasure.

As she rose to clear away the dishes, he encouraged her instead to stay, his hand moving to hers.

"Leave them."  he whispered to her.  "They'll keep, till later."

"How handsome you will look in evening clothes."  she said, smiling through her tears, smoothing her skirts and sitting down across his lap, her arm round his shoulders, his hands gentle at her waist.   She held him close.

"Now what shall I wear." 

"You're an enchantress, in anything you wear."  he said, as they kissed.   "Of course I'll go with you.  I would be honoured.  It will be good to visit London again."  

Perhaps Vincent could be called upon to look after the farm for a few days, take them to and from the railway station.  Vincent liked a tipple of the _aqua vitae_ , as he liked to call it, every now and then; alcoholic drink was something that John had learned was something of an acquired taste, but he was a good man, and he would be trustworthy and reliable enough.

"Good.  I'll write and let Dorian know we'll be coming, then." 

 

* * *

 

"Come."  She had said, after a time, taking his hand, leading him upstairs to her bed.   It was still afternoon, scandalous.

"How long I have waited for thee."   he whispered to her, kissing her neck, lovingly fondling and kissing her breasts as she slipped off her chemise, cupping them in his hands, swirling his tongue over her nipples, hearing her sighs of pleasure in response.  She was beautiful.  He knew that in her experiences, she had not always been treated well.   She should always be treated well.  

He touched the soft, translucent skin of her throat; he would not mar her.

"You are my beloved wife, do you remember it now."  he breathed.  Yes, she had begun to remember.  She started to unbutton his shirt, kissing along his jaw.

It was its own alchemy, love.   You could try to put all of the elements in place in anticipation of it, and still it would elude you.   Then it would appear, at another time, its own time.  Oh, how hesitant and foolish she had been, when it was him she should have loved from the start.  

"I love you."  she told him.  "I am yours."  

He stopped her, finished taking off the shirt himself, roughly unbuttoning it and letting it fall away from his body.  His eyes blazed at her, the color of amber.

 _Then look upon me_ , he said.  

He revealed himself to her, his bodily scars.  When he saw that she would not be turned away from him, he kissed her fiercely, and with great relief.   He had been not only profoundly lonely, but profoundly alone.  Noone else shared his particular, unique experience, except for her.  _I care not_ , she told him, and then whispered it again to him, taking his face in her hands and looking deeply into his ardent eyes, that they only made him more beautiful to her, as she returned his kiss with equal feeling.  Their creator had made her strong too.  His scars were a part of him.  Whatever was the cause of them must have given him much pain.   His body was strong and powerful, but in his nature was a great sensitivity of expression.  She had less visible scars, where her heart should be.   He had so much love to give; and so much need of love in return.  As did she. She drew him to her, welcomed him to her, and when he entered her, they both cried out in pleasure and bliss.   One scar, the largest, wound serpentine from his right shoulder to around his broad back, his glorious back that she had missed so much, which she kissed and caressed from beneath him as he mantled over her, his shoulder blades curving round her like wings.  It seemed they were wings unfolding, brilliantly shining dark wings, with the long primary flight feathers splaying like fingers, or she must have dreamt it so.   

 

* * *

 

Her dress and her undergarments and stockings were draped over a chair, along with his clothes.  Through the open window, the breeze gently stirred the leaves, lightly billowing the draperies and partially drawn bed curtains as John rested beside her.   Turning onto her side to face him, she traced his lips and his chin with her fingertips, and then down over his scarred chest and stomach, and kissed him there.   His skin felt cool; but not unusually so, or off-putting.   She supposed it must be the same for her; mortals would find her touch cold and misunderstand.  By contrast, Dorian Gray, in his unique and unusual way of seeing things, had kissed her hands and compared them to sculpted marble.  She smiled.  Dorian could be such a charmer, but it was quite a more positive response than what John had had.  Her family had noticed it too, and always went to extra trouble to try to keep her warm, rubbing her hands in theirs, or taking her to the warmth of the hearth.   There would be no misunderstandings like that between the two of them.   

_"Your hands are always cold, dear girl, come by the fire to warm them." her grandmother would say.  "I have the same affliction in my old age.  But it means we have a warm heart."_

He found her dancing in the garden in a thunderstorm one night, flashes of lightning all around her, her wet nightdress clinging to her body, her hair soaked with rain.  With her St. Jude's medallion around her neck; even though he was pagan he was tolerant of others' beliefs.  She loved summer thunderstorms.  He did not move to stop her or hurry her back inside to safety; it was something only the two of them could understand.

He gently woke at her touch, drowsily smiled up at her, reached over and caressed the half-moon curve of the side of her breast, and down and over the rise of her hip, and between her legs, then bringing her hand to touch him.   He was aroused again, took her astride him, wanting to be inside her again, _her sweet body_ , he said.   It surprised her that the lustfulness she found so offensive in other men would thrill her so when it was he who desired her, and her eyes closed as the feeling shuddered through them; first through her, then him.

 

* * *

 

The hour seemed late when she again awoke, and the sun very low and on the horizon, making the room unusually light for the time of day, with birdsong and the sounds of other wild creatures beyond.   She felt a strange peacefulness.  She stretched languorously and pulled the bedclothes up around them, nestled in closer to him, and let the peaceful sounds lull her to back to sleep again, and they slept on into the evening.

It was the first time they had made love, and after that, they would share a bed.

 

* * *

 

"Mr. and Mrs. John Clare, sir."  Dorian's butler greeted them and after taking their coats, announcing their arrival at Dorian Gray's elegant Georgian town house in Belgrave Square.

"Ah."  Dorian said.   "The man who won our dear Brona's heart."

 "Yes."  Brona smiled, taking John's hand to her lips.

 "Welcome.  I'm very pleased to meet you, and do enjoy tonight, you are among friends."


	5. Joining the Dance

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Subtitle from _The Lady of Shalott_ (1832) by Alfred, Lord Tennyson

"I Am Half-Sick of Shadows", said the Lady of Shalott

In her peignoir and brushing her hair at her dressing table before going to bed, Vanessa considered her circumstances.  Poor Sembene was now gone, and Sir Malcolm away in Africa for his burial and memorial service, and to help comfort his family.  There was such an emptiness without Sembene; without both of them.  And now Ethan was gone too.   Convinced he was guilty of something, but she couldn't make him see that he was not.  He would not let her help him; now that she had seen, had guessed his secret, and he knew she now knew about him.  They could help each other.  She put down her hairbrush, and buried her face in her hands.   There was such heaviness in her heart, she couldn't even cry.  

The ideal match for her most would probably have thought to be Peter Murray.  But he had no interest in her, other than the familial bond that resulted from the closeness of their two families; and no wonder, after she accidentally spied her mother and his father in a heated clinch in the garden hedge maze, going at it like two young lovers, she realized that Sir Malcolm might be her real father, and Peter her half-brother!  How Darwinian.  Or Freudian.  She was too spellbound at the time to decide which.  Plus, she did not care to attract a husband and marry, because she did not want all of her money and property to revert to the ownership of any man, and lost to her.  

Because of that attitude, and some of her unconventionalities, she was sure any reputation she might have had was now shot anyway.  Her mother used to tell her, while she brushed Vanessa's dark hair till it shone, that she was so beautiful that she could marry anyone she chose, but Vanessa never believed it.   Why then, was Ethan so distant now?   Sensing a connection between them, and feeling a bit brave, she'd asked him to one of Dorian's parties, always much-anticipated events, this time a glamorous masked ball; but he seemed distressed and preoccupied, and when she informed him of the date, he turned her down flat.  She had gone to the ball anyway, solo, and danced the night away.  _It had been the night of a full moon_ , she now realized.  She could sense there was something between them, but then came the letter that seemed to settle the matter once and for all, informing her that he was returning to America.

She had only ever been with one man, under the most regrettable of circumstances that she wished she could take back, and erase forever.   Mina was her best friend, close as a sister.  Her half-sister, she was now sure.  Vanessa was the dark-haired sister. But if Mina's fiancé had that easily gone astray, he would not have made a good husband for her in the long run.  Not led or lured astray, but an opportunist.  Vanessa had done Mina a favor, in a way.  Or maybe she was just deluding herself; maybe her actions had lead to what eventually had befallen Mina.  She hadn't meant them to.  Why had she done such a thing?  Did she not want to lose her friend to marriage, felt abandoned?   Thank goodness her parents had her released from the hospital so that she could continue to recover at home.

On the day Lord Tennyson died, Professor Ferdinand Lyle, Archeologist and Egyptologist at the British Museum, expert in extinct languages and their revival and knowledge of the arcane, dear man, had paid her another visit, this time persistently banging on the door as she cowered in a corner and waited for him to go away, vowing not to leave until he could see she was still in the land of the living.  Once entered, and he had a look around at the state of things, giving her the card of a Dr. Florence Seward, an alienist, a new science, to help lift her out of the depths that seemed to paralyze her so.    _Or at least back up into the Mammalian class again_ , Professor Lyle had quipped in his usual jovial way, waving away a fly.  A spider spinning a web in the corner.  Dr. Seward had been a great help to him, he had said.  And there was still Mr. Clare's friendship too.   Mr. Clare touched her heart, and she felt a special affinity between them.  She certainly was in need of friends.  She hadn't seen him in some time, down at the shelters, and should really ask him round to tea.   She should also consider hiring some household help.   With her inheritance, she could certainly afford someone to come in, but not much more than that.  

"Thank you, you are a true friend." she told Professor Lyle, and hugged him.

It was at that moment she decided to pull herself up and get on with it; until she could find someone to help, she could certainly do things herself.   She covered her hair with a kerchief and began to straighten up the room, dusting, scraping and preparing to wash the mountain of dirty dishes.

"My dear, you must be the most lovely housemaid I have ever seen.  Good luck to you.  Call if ever you should need me.   And do be sure to contact Dr. Seward."  Professor Lyle told her, and bid her good day.  

When she was finished scrubbing the floors, exhausted but victorious, she went upstairs to her bedroom and opened the casement window, and sat down to look out over the city at dusk, relaxing and smoking a cigarette, as the church bells still chimed honouring their poet laureate.   She always loved to hear church bells, especially when they would chime the hour.   The air felt cool and damp; there had been a light rain that slicked the streets and made the slate-tiled rooftops shine in the fading light.  She felt a hope that she hadn't felt in a long time.

  

* * *

 

Dr. Seward had told her, after their unsettling initial visit, to go out and do something she had never done before, and then to report back at their next visit.   Dr. Seward appeared quite startlingly as Joan Clayton to her, who as it turned out, was an ancestor of hers.   This shook Dr. Seward also, who always tried to present a composed, professional demeanour.   

"You have an unexplained terror of fire, Dr. Seward, do you not, more so than an ordinary person."  Vanessa had said.

How could she know this?  Miss Ives was a very unusual patient.   And it was true; she did, of the pain.  She had such a vicarious terror of it in fact, that she'd always wondered, only half doubtingly, if she'd been burned at the stake in some former life; for it was the kind of thing that could span generations. 

But it was only Vanessa's uncanny ability to see past the surface and straight into the hearts of others.  Usually it never failed her. 

So, she left Dr. Seward's office and decided to go wherever Providence led her, enjoying listening to the peal of the church bells and following the rhythmic sound. 

 _Can you not see that He has abandoned you?   Oh my beloved.  You're not even a blade of grass to Him.   The richest nation in the world, and this kind of poverty and suffering and corruption is allowed to exist?_     _He does not exist for you!_   _But I do...._

She knew exactly what he was doing; but still, he was so persuasive, silken in his persuasion, she  just wanted to fall into his arms and embrace him, even so.  To relieve her of her burden.  She wanted to protest that he was mistaken, profane, blasphemous; but then, she couldn't completely disagree either.  He knew exactly what to say to her, exactly what was in her heart that troubled her, so that she couldn't help but go along.   It felt odd; a feeling that could only be described as time slowing, a hovering or fluttering of wings, a drawing out and away, with the promise of a resolution so peaceful and beautiful that it made her feel weak. 

She was approached by a strange young boy, unnaturally pale, selling memorial ribbons for Tennyson, and she bought one from him. 

 _You're looking at my face, my face, it's paleness, it's from the anemia they call it, my blood!_ he repeated, over and over again, strangely, and she was distracted from all of her all her previous thoughts, dismissing them as silly imaginings.

"Savor this day, beautiful lady.  Mother." he said to her, after she handed him his money, giving him more than what it cost, poor hungry child, and he gave her the ribbon in return.    The boy, who said his name was Sebastian, suddenly became quiet and subdued; as if he had said something he shouldn't have, or had given away a secret - as excited children often do, in anticipation of a surprise celebration or a big event, like Christmas.  She smiled at him as she pinned the black ribbon to the lapel of her coat, and continued on her way.  _Of course, one must always seize any opportunity the day might bring,_ she thought, and when she looked round, she found herself at the steps of the Natural History Museum. 

She walked among the myriad animals in the main hall, all strangely alive but not alive, eyes seeing and not seeing, and she stopped short in front of a beautiful grey wolf, looked directly into the yellow eyes, the animal caught and suspended forever in a moment.  The exhibit caption read: 

_No. 832_

_Canis l. lupus, Eurasian (European) Grey Wolf,_

_a noble creature_.  

It had all made her feel so terribly sad.  She would have to tell Dr. Seward that her suggestion had not been such a good idea at all.

"Hello!"  a voice called out, slightly echoing in the vastness of the central hall. 

"Oh!" Vanessa turned in the direction of the voice that had startled her from her ruminations to meet Dr. Alexander Sweet, Director of Zoological Studies, coming downstairs from the upper mezzanine.

"Pardon me, but I couldn't help but notice you admiring our grey wolf." he said, walking over to her, introducing himself.

"She still looks so....alive."  Vanessa said.

"Yes.  A magnificent example, isn't she.  One of the last of her kind, at least here in the British Isles, regrettably.   As you see, the last wolf was reportedly killed in Scotland in 1680."

"How can they be sure?"

"The date varies somewhat, difficult to pinpoint exactly when, between fact and legend, but none have been seen in the wild here in modern times."

Elegant and distinguished, Dr. Sweet took the most boyish delight in the animals and nature, escorting her through the various exhibits, as he went on at length about the scorpions of the Sahara, the arachnids, tigers and other creatures masters of evolution and adaptation. 

"Fascinating!" he would interject from time to time, or a "Beware!" for the dangerous ones.  But he may not have realized he could not have found a more receptive listener than Vanessa; she found him delightful.  It was something she recognized from her own childhood too, and it relieved her sadness about the poor creatures she saw around her.  

"Forgive me, but I do go on, don't I."  he chuckled.  

"Don't worry, Dr. Sweet.  It's been lovely."  she reassured him.   To have found your calling so early in life like that, and to have known to heed it, without regret, was a wonderful thing.

But then an associate called him away.   

"We'll see each other again I hope.   Enjoy your visit, and don't forget to look in on the unloved and forgotten ones.   Who will care for them if not us.  Good day to you, Miss....sorry, Miss Ives, was it?  It's been an unexpected pleasure."

"Yes, Miss Ives."  she confirmed, the disappointment that he was leaving surprising her.  "Vanessa.  Thank you, I will.  And good day to you.  It was a pleasure to speak with you as well."  And she continued on.

 

* * *

 

"When was last time you had something decent to eat, old fellow."  Henry inquired.   He began to rummage through the cupboards in what passed for the kitchen in Victor's rooms, until he found a suitable enough cooking pot, a cast-iron Dutch oven. 

"Let us make something then.  It will be just like the old days.  Do you remember?"  

Yes, Victor remembered.  

"We'll go down to the market together.  What we can't find, we'll make do with something else.   I saw a chap hawking vegetables on the way over.  Fix you right up; good as new, eh?"  Henry touched Victor on the shoulder, and then Victor kissed him; spontaneous and natural. 

"It's so good to have you here again!" he told Henry.  

Lentils, fragrant basmati rice, onions, potatoes, rose water, yogurt; an expensive thread or two of saffron, and spices. They prepared together a biryani, caramelizing the onions first in a pan on Victor's laboratory hot plate, like they used to do when they were in school, and then transferring it all to the pot and letting it slow cook for hours in the fireplace wood coals and embers.

By the time it was ready it was dusk; Victor lit candles and served it with the naan bread they had also made.  He had almost forgotten how good it could be.

 

* * *

 Pygmalion and Galatea

_"You're an enchantress, in anything you wear."_

Brona smiled when John said that; it made her think of their first real talk together, when she was Lily, she as nervous and overwhelmed as he must have been, reborn into a new life where everything was strange and familiar at the same time, with a fiancé she did not know or remember even having.   Must she love him now, when she wasn't ready?  John had complimented her dress, gently trying to ease the conversation, and she had informed him that Victor had picked it out for her.  

"But do _you_ like it?"  John had asked.  

Noone had ever asked for her opinion before, or cared if she had one.   Flustered, she repeated that Victor had chosen it for her, nervously running her hands along the skirt fabric, as if not sure what to do with them, should it mean that she automatically must like it if he had chosen it?  Victor, who had her wear a corset to cinch her into the tiny-waisted, desirable hourglass figure, coloured her naturally copper-brown hair blonde, had her wear high shoes that were uncomfortable on her feet, because they flattered a woman's legs, Victor who literally put her up on a pedestal as he helped her dress and pinned the hem to the proper length, turning her into his, or society's, ideal of the perfect woman, had picked it out.   Who was she supposed to be - a former love, perhaps an unrequited one?   Wife, mother, courtesan?  He'd only meant to help with her transition back into the world, but still...

No, she hadn't really loved the dress, now that we're about it.    John, so sweet she realized now, had never expected those things from her; she would find that he was happy to have her company just as she was, even if in his desire to end his loneliness and to love he had been impatient for things to proceed the way he thought they ought to.   She knew she must have behaved a fright back then.  Neither of them were perfect; they both had done things they now regretted.  But there were times when she appreciated John's fiery nature.

"If we are to begin again, it must be as friends, Mr. Clare, I can do no other!"  she had protested.

Her memories were unpredictable; some had never left her and seemed to come naturally, as when she made the shepherd's pie recipe for their dinner one night.   Others she had no recollection of until much later.  She still might have undiscovered memories.

Now that she and John had finished dressing, and she dabbed perfume at her neckline, put on her earrings and a jeweled haircomb in her pinned-up hair as the finishing touch, she wore the fashionable clothes that she chose.   She put on her evening gloves.

She also had chosen her own husband, and in this strange twist of fate, it had turned out to be John after all.   Their creator was an imperfect soul, and Brona was inclined to not judge him too harshly now; since he, as other men of his day, didn't know any differently.  She'd even say now that she owed him a bit of gratitude; for even if she had known the doctor's plans for her beforehand, she would have agreed to them without a moment's hesitation, knowing what she did now. _A thousand times, yes._   She didn't think she'd ever been as happy in her miserable, benighted former life as she was now.

John in his black tailcoat and full evening dress, had pulled back his long hair and tied it with a black ribbon, almost in military queue fashion.   She was reminded, with great pleasure, of the time she caught that first glimpse of him coming from backstage at the Grand Guignol, with his hair tied back like that, during all the flurry of activity before the curtain went up for the performance, striking her as being worn as a practical matter then.   She had snuck in to the performance of _Doctor Faustus_ because she had no money, and at the time thought him to be one of the actors, as he was reciting a lyric poem by Christopher Marlowe up there on the empty stage, in resonant voice.  The style may not have been what current fashion dictated, but it suited him just fine, and he looked very handsome.

"You dear, sweet man." she told him, with an affectionate touch to his lapel, and he smiled.

 

* * *

 

"Welcome."  Dorian said, excusing himself from his conversation with his good friend Lord Henry Hyde Wolton, and took both Brona's hands in his, kissing her face in Continental fashion, once each cheek, which she returned.   "I haven't seen you in such a long time."  He greeted John warmly, shaking his hand.   

John looked into the face of Dorian Gray.   It was such a heartbreakingly beautiful and innocently youthful face that it was hard to believe he had been such a scoundrel in his past.   Did he not know him?  But it was of no matter to him any longer.   Mr. Gray might call the tune now, but he would have to pay the piper and answer for his sins one day, just as any.

"Everyone."  Dorian requested everyone's attention as they enjoyed their glasses of champagne and apéritifs.   "I'd like you to all meet someone."  he announced.  "Everyone, allow me to introduce my dearest, Miss Angelique Bouchard." 

"How do you do.  Enchanted."  Angelique said.   She was very beautiful, in a royal blue satin gown.

Shortly thereafter, dinner was announced by Dorian's butler; and they followed Dorian and Angelique into the dining room.

 

* * *

 

Later, they had danced together easily, elegantly to a waltz; amid the whirling music and background murmur of the other guests, John had a vague recollection of someone, Miss Ives, teaching him to dance down in the catacombs, and his hesitant steps.  He had thought himself so awkward and maladroit then, confiding in her all his hopes and fears for Brona, but Miss Ives had made him feel at ease and natural, reassuring him that he was no different than anyone else in love, encouraged him.

 _"See this woman in me,"_ she had whispered to him. _"And follow your heart."_

When they had danced to their hearts' content, they retreated to a quiet corner, sitting together on the elegant Louis XV chaise longue, to listen to the music playing on Dorian's wax cylinder phonograph _._ She sat close to him, and John began to discreetly kiss her neck and shoulder, his arm around her waist pulling her closer, and she turned her head to kiss him, melting into his embrace. 

"Are you enjoying tonight?"  she asked him. 

"Yes, very much." John said, giving her a nuzzled kiss.  "And you?"

"Yes."  she said, and returned his kiss.  "But I don't know that I could stand a steady diet of this kind of life, too rich for me.  I'm really a simple girl at heart."  she told him.  "But once in awhile, it is fun."

It was what he had longed to hear from someone.   He could not give her this kind of life, and had no desire for it for himself.  

At Dorian's home, guests were not held to the usual conventions.  Impromptu displays of affection and lovemaking were not unusual occurrences, and were never discouraged when they did occur.   But they would wait until they were back in the privacy of their room. 

They had wandered through the gallery; admiring the paintings.   Brona felt something was familiar about the room, something from before, even before Dorian had brought her here the first time, which she had remembered; and when she caught sight of the portrait of the woman in the top hat and veil, in a riding habit, her head began to swim. 

"What's wrong, darling,"  John asked her, holding her arm, concerned, as he could feel her become unsteady.  "Are you all right?"

"I'm fine now." she said, regaining her composure, and she continued among the portraits, some of whom she now realized were Dorian's relatives, all unravaged by time forever, and hers among them. 

When Angelique and Dorian said goodnight to their guests and saw them off to their waiting carriages in the early hours of the morning, Angelique wore the suit and trousers of her birth gender, her hair now left long, and she looked just as beautiful.

"Good night."

 


	6. Enigma

The Mariner's Inn, London Docks, Wapping, East London

 

"Brona, you're an angel sent from Heaven, God blind me if I'm lyin'." they'd say, when she'd bring them their pints, brandies, a hot meal, or lend a sympathetic ear.  

The Inn's owner and her boss, Mr. Curlew, usually kept an eye out for her, as did a few of the regulars.  She smiled as she remembered how they all tossed one overly persistent fellow right out into the street.

"Would ya look at the time.  About time for you to leavin'." he'd tell them, if they seemed to be getting a little too amorous and drunk; but generally the patrons were decent and respectful, and appreciative, sometimes leaving her a gift of a small box of chocolates and sweets that she would share.  Her paisley shawl had been a gift, left for her with a note by one of the sailors who would come in, who used to sit in a quiet corner reading books of poetry while having his dinner and a pint of bitter.  Sometimes they would chat for a little bit.  James, he was.  She remembered that he was very good-looking; but she never saw him again after that and wondered whatever had become of him.

Brona's uniform was a man-tailored shirtwaist striped blouse with modest leg o' mutton puffed sleeves and a necktie; and a long black skirt, but wearing a corset underneath that accentuated her figure, and a crisp white bar apron.     Her long hair was pinned up atop of her head in the fashionable, rolled updo style of the day.

At closing time, she thought she heard something outside, a bit farther up the street; loud voices and jeering drunken laughter, and the low moaning and crying out of someone in pain. 

"Charlie, d'you hear that?" she asked, after they had tallied up the cash receipts for the night and locked them away in the strongbox.  Charlie would take them to the bank sometime in the morning.

"Nothin' new."  he said, probably thinking about getting home to his wife and family.  "Leave it be, Brona. The constables'll be by to break it up." 

"What if they don't come by,  or don't come by in time?" she worried.  "We should go check, all the same."  

"All right, all right." Charlie muttered.  "If it'll stop your frettin'."   Brona wrapped her shawl around her shoulders.

They closed up and went to look together, where they found a young man being beaten and robbed in the alley behind the inn. 

"Stop!"  she screamed. 

"Clear out, lads, bitch'll wake the dead, loud enough."   In retrospect, if they only knew. 

They kneeled down next to the man.  By the looks of him, a gentleman, well-dressed in fine clothes, clean hands, he'd have likely been a 'do-gooder' from St. George's church, or slumming and visiting the pubs, the whorehouses, the gambling and opium dens.   At this hour, it was probably the latter, although they were not always mutually exclusive.  She found a billfold emptied of its money and seemingly dropped in haste nearby. 

"Can you stand and walk, sir?"   Mr. Curlew asked him.

"Yes, I think."  

They helped him to his feet, and he put his arms around their shoulders, stumbling back to the Mariner's Inn. 

"Take him up to one of the rooms for the night, Brona."  Mr. Curlew said.   Brona had already turned down the beds.  She helped him climb the rickety stairs, and with his coat, slipping it over his shoulders, and unbuttoned a few buttons of his shirt so that he could lie down and rest easily, and he collapsed onto the bed, grateful. 

She lit the oil lamp on the mirrored dresser; blew out the match.   She could see his reflection in the glass.  

"Not what you're used to, I'm sure."  she smiled and said.

"It's fine.  Thank you." 

She had chosen the best room, one that she had freshly cleaned earlier.  It was spare but comfortable, with the well-worn and mended bed linens soft and trimmed in fisherman's knot tatted lace that she thought was beautiful, and where the sun in the east shone through the window in the morning.  

"I'll be back in a jiffy."  she told him.  

Brona left, and then came back with a wash basin filled with some hot water from the stove, and a washcloth and towels.  

She sat down on the bed next to him.  He sat up a bit.

"Ainm an àigh, what happened to your face, my bonny lad." she whispered, as she wiped away the blood from his nose with the dampened washcloth.   His eyes were beginning to look swollen.  He flinched a bit at her touch.

"A little sore, is it?"  she asked.

"A little." 

"It's not broken.  You'll have yourself a right nasty shiner there come mornin' too."   He was young and very beautiful of face, slender in build, with beautiful hands that had many rings on his fingers.  They must have interrupted the thieves before they had a chance to take them. 

She left again, and when she came back with a cup of tea and a brandy to help him sleep, she could have sworn his injuries didn't look as severe as when they'd first found him.

"My name is Brona Croft.  I'll be right down the hall if you should need anything."  she told him.  "I live here, you see.   Sleep well."  

 

* * *

 

"Feeling better this morning, good sir?"  Mr. Curlew asked when the man came downstairs the next morning.

"Yes, much better, thank you."  he said, and joined them for some breakfast and coffee.  In the candid light of the morning, it appeared his wounds had completely healed!   Had she imagined their severity?  Charlie had gone to see about getting a carriage for him, and hadn't mentioned it.  Were it not for the slight blood stain on his shirt, she might never have known he had been injured.  How very strange.

"How may I repay you?"  he asked, before he left in a Hansom cab.  "You must allow me to repay you for your kindness."  Reaching into the breast pocket of his coat, he took out a card and left it on the bar. 

"My name is Dorian Gray."

 

 

 


	7. Camera Obscura

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Vanessa is given a glimpse into another world; should she choose it.

Vanessa was taken aback; a young girl, who appeared to make the sign of the cross as Vanessa walked past her. Had she really seen it? Then it happened again, unmistakable this time - an elderly gentleman also stopped and made the sign of the cross when he saw her walk by him.

*  *  *

It was the reverse of the natural laws that she found most unsettling at first, everything she'd ever been taught, but not everything, apparently - the law of gravity seemed reversed, time and motion changed, as the creatures crawled and danced across the ceiling, across the floors and up and down the exterior walls, without any apparent aid. An aversion to full sunlight, but tolerant of, even basking in, dawn and dusk. She could see them now, as she walked at night, their kind - and hers too, should she choose - moving unseen, sometimes posing as the stone gargoyles and angels atop grand buildings and cathedrals, clinging to the edges with wings poised to fly.   Waking as the sun set behind them from their stone genuflection to walk upon the narrow ledges, for it was their Master who was given and ruled the Blessed Darkness, and returning back to them at dawn.  Something she imagined only very few mortals had the ability to see.  They could never enter a church, only ever hover outside at the windows, or they would die, shrivel into dust. Those wishing to escape them would find protection behind the barred doors of churches. Once she was released from her earthly form, Vanessa's daylight bed would be the stone likeness of her at her family burial crypt.

An ability to influence the weather too; as she looked up to the night sky, dark clouds began to move across the moon as the wind picked up slightly.  She could hear it gently rustling in the treetops, and felt it brush cool against her cheek, and she wanted to stay.

Supernatural strength, able to shapeshift into other forms as if made of mist, but driven by a hunger, for as soon as they would drain the lifeblood of a living creature over the several weeks or months it took as their host gradually weakened and died, it was not long before the need presented itself again. Yet she wondered what a kind of life like this would be like, as they were sublimely beautiful and hypnotic. Dr. Sweet called them his night creatures, their otherworldly voices he called music, singing. The child Sebastian she'd seen earlier was one of them; and she thought she saw one who resembled Dr. Seward's secretary, Mr. Renfield.  And someone else . . . Mina!  She wanted to call out to her.  Of course she knew now that Dr. Sweet was not his true name, nor his true form.  His true name was Dracula.  All this he had revealed to her; and he could make her forget just as well.

As she followed, taking his arm and walking with him that night, she wearing a long cloak over her nightdress, or maybe walk wasn't the proper word, she hadn't fully grasped the language yet as it was more like floating because she wasn't aware of her feet touching the cobblestone streets, she saw them all descend upon a poor old beggar man, who struggled, frightening her. When they would finish with him, he would be left for the rats and feral dogs in a back alley somewhere or wash up along the banks of the Thames, without much notice by the living.   Would they do the same to her? _Oh no my dear, you will have a special place in this world._    Others seemed to follow of their own will; as she discovered when she witnessed a dark-haired woman of them, her face indistinct in this vision, take a young gentleman up against a brick wall in one of the back alleys, and tasting the salty, metallic taste of blood for the first time.   But what remained unsaid: in order to live, forever, you must do the same as they. Would it be too high a price for such a thing? Would any price be?

Could she be his bride, and their Queen, who she had been born to be, he told her, never to live in the day again, but never changing? She now left the casement window open for him, after that first night he appeared to her, rattling the handles of the window, his great mantling wings striking up against the glass and frightening her out of her sleep, or had it been a dream. As he took her pulse, his thumb softly brushed over the inside of her wrist and made her skin thrill.

 _Ah, your pulse is quick,_ he whispered with a smile, and then he kissed the inside of her wrist. Two small pinpoint wounds were left there from his teeth, which had given her just the smallest bit of pain at first, and then only a dream-like euphoria. The cuff of her blouse sleeve would hide them, or a bracelet, a glove.

Toward dawn, they seemed to change into the form of birds or bats, flying away en masse as the sun began to rise, and singing in that same otherworldly keening; which to her felt again sublime.

 

* * *

*  *  *

If she had checked the employee sign-in sheet, she would have found his name, but she did not want to be intrusive. Instead, she asked with the discharge nurse.

"I wonder if you would be able to help me. The orderly who worked the night shift while I was here, would it be possible to have his name? He was so kind to me that I wanted to say a good word for him."

"Oh that would be Jimmy, umm, James, Miss.  James Vale.  He no longer works here.  But it's very kind of you, I'm sure he would appreciate it.  You've a generous heart."

Should she call on him and his family, or write a letter.  She would write to his supervisors of course, and to the hospital administrator about his good character and decency.

They lived in Limehouse, in the East End, in a brick terrace flat on the Causeway. There was a little tea shop nearby, and a bookstore on the way. Maybe a book of poetry, or a book on sailing ships, which he and his son shared an interest in, she remembered he'd told her. But nothing too much, because they were of modest means.

She took a Hansom cab to Narrow Street, and instructed the coachman to wait. She climbed the stairs to the second floor, knocked.  In the few moments she waited for the door to be answered, she noticed that the paint on the doorframe was showing a fine pattern of crazing.

"Miss Ives!"

When he opened the door, he didn't know whether to be disturbed or glad that she now knew his name.

"Please, come in." A boy of about ten appeared beside him.

"This is Jack, as you must have guessed." he said. "Jack, say hello to Miss Ives."

"Well, hello, Jack," Vanessa said, and smiled.

"And my wife, Marjorie."

"You look well, I must say."

She looked beautiful, in fact. But more than that, he knew that she was a lovely, good person. She was wearing a long dark blue skirt with an ivory blouse under a smart-looking jacket, tailored at the waist and fastened with soutache braid closures. Her glossy dark hair was now done up fashionably into a chignon, under a black velvet hat sitting jauntily off center and slightly forward on her head, with a small feather plume. Black lace gloves, which she removed. She carried a couple of small packages with her. Delicate, black beaded earrings that looked to be of Whitby jet, also the fashion (he only knew any of this because of Marjorie, who had come to the door behind him), and faceted, which gently shimmered as she spoke animatedly and laughed. Her pale skin looked healthy, her green eyes were now bright and happy. She smelled mildly of lavender flowers.

He took her offered hand. She told him it hadn't been necessary for the trepanation surgery after all, which he was very relieved to hear. She told him that it was because she had decided to take his advice about going along with it all so that she could be released, and he was grateful for that.

"It's good to see you." he said.

"I hope you don't mind that I found your name and address. I simply had to thank you and your wife in some way for the kindness you both showed me when I was at the Clinic. I hope I'm no bother. I won't stay long, I promise."

"No, not at all," he said. He was still a little stunned that she was here.

The flat was simple and neat, and he appeared to be a bit nervous, tidying up and straightening the pillows on an old sofa, although it wasn't necessary and he had no reason to be.

"Please, sit." He showed her to the sofa.

She noticed some books, and a model ship on a cabinet against the far wall; she was glad then that she made the right choice of a gift - the book of sailing ships.

"May we get you anything?" he asked.

"I can't stay," Vanessa said. "My cab is waiting. But you must all come for a visit to Grandage Place, once Sir Malcolm returns from Africa." She left them her visiting card with the address and said good day.

He insisted that he accompany her, as it wasn't safe for a woman alone, and helped her into the carriage.

 

* * *

 

_"Your work is not yet finished, Creator!"  he cried out.  "Do you not feel you are obligated to me for at least something?   Do you feel that this is ethical, that you are justified in bringing me into this world, and to then discard me, to be tormented and alone?   You must do this last thing for me, I beg you - create another like me.  And only then I will leave you.  It will be as if I had never existed!"_

*  *  *

 

"Miss Ives...I...I was in need of a friend." he said.

"Mr. Clare." she was a little surprised, but glad to see him at 8 Grandage Place in Westminster.   There was just something about him that she was drawn to, and he was now a good friend, for whom she cared deeply.  And she had wanted to speak with him about something.

"Come in, then.  We'll have some tea."  she said, as she invited him into the front hall and took his coat.  She still hadn't gotten round to finding a housekeeper yet, and made the tea herself.

After leaving the Clinic, he had found work on the West India docks, near the parish of All Saints. But with employment hard to come by, tensions ran high and competition was fierce for the work, and cutthroat; and unofficially controlled by gangs of thugs.  An accident, a fight with another dockworker wielding a docker's hook, was all that he remembered.  But Dr. Frankenstein had brought him back. He still showed up for work at half past seven in the morning, his newfound physical strength and tirelessness very useful and in demand, always one of the first chosen in the morning work callouts.  And one demonstration of his imposing size and strength in another fight was enough to make sure that he was never challenged again.

In the months since he had last seen her, when she had visited them in Limehouse, much had changed in his life. He explained that his son had passed away from consumption, the reason for the persistent cough and fevers he had, and in her grief, his wife had left him. He did not mention that it was because Marjorie had wanted to bring Jack to Dr. Frankenstein, and he had refused to. Marjorie had wanted the same for Jack as was done for him.

"I'm very sorry for your loss." Vanessa told him, patting his hand.  The loss of a child was difficult for any marriage.  "When she recovers from her grief, she'll return to you, I'm sure she will." 

"I don't know about that." he answered.

He was a different man now. In the time that had passed since his return, he found that Marjorie thought his interest in books and poetry, and his romantic ideas too lofty and impractical, and she had no interest in them. His son Jack had not, once he had gotten used to his father's changed appearance, and he would miss their talks and story-telling. Some of the books were borrowed from Dr. Frankenstein. He thought that if they all went to the seaside and take the air it would be good for Jack's cough, and also romantic for himself and Marjorie, a chance to be together and get to know each other again; but it was too late for that. Things were different between he and Marjorie now; awkward. She recognized him, but didn't know him anymore. She seemed to have gotten used to being without him, independent and wanting to continue working at that awful, dangerous factory, with its foul air and infernal noise, for only a few shillings a week; and not having any sentimental attachment to their old home, which he did. He had suggested that they move back, and with his being home again, she didn't need to work.

He had taken Jack to be buried at sea, shrouded in linen sailcloth, said a silent prayer.

"Mr. Clare.  John," she said, covering his hands with hers. "There is something I've been meaning to ask you.  I've had a sort of a . . . a recollection.  There was a man . . . and we were thrown together in close quarters once, he and I.  He was very, very kind to me, and I love him for it.  At the Banning Clinic.  I shall never forget it.  I believe you are that man.  Do you remember anything like that, at all?"

He had absolutely no idea what she was talking about.

"No . . . I am sorry."  He struggled to remember.  "I cannot."

"I'm sure your wife will love you again too, because the man I know deserves to be loved."

"And the man you see before you now?" If Vanessa had noticed the long scar on the side of his face, she hadn't said. Surely she would want a man of her own standing. But for the moment, he allowed himself the pleasure of thinking that it might be him.  He was glad of her friendship.

"The man you are shines through.  If I can see it, so will others." she said, taking his hands in hers again.

But he took a walk to the Banning Clinic after that conversation, and stood outside the ivy-covered brick walls looking through the wrought iron gate, because what she had said had caused him a great deal of consternation, with all of the strange memories he had been having of late.  It was enough to rack one's wits.  And there he thought he remembered something.

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: Penny Dreadful characters and any story references belong to John Logan.


End file.
